several shades less happy, began coming from their tents shortly after daylight. By five o'clock they were all up and dressed, since, being accustomed to darkened rooms, they found themselves unable to sleep owing to the glare coming through the white canvas. Out of consideration for his guests, whom he remembered as late risers, Wallie had set the breakfast hour at eight-thirty. This seemed an eternity to The Happy Family who, already famished, consulted their watches with increasing frequency while they watched the door of the bunk-house like cats at a mouse-hole for the cook to make his appearance. After a restless night due to strange beds and surroundings, still fatigued with their long journey, their muscles stiff from the "churning" in the stagecoach, they were not better natured for being ferociously hungry. After wandering around to look listlessly at the ponies, and at the salt-water plunge that was to rejuvenate them, they sat down on the edge of the platforms in front of their tents to endure somehow the three hours which must pass before breakfast. The dawn was sweet-scented, the song of the meadow-lark celestial, and the colours of the coming day reflected on the snow-covered peaks a sight to be remembered, but the guests had no eyes or ears or nose for any of the charms of the early morning. The rising of the sun was nothing as compared to the rising of the cook who would appease their savage hunger. Conversation was reduced to monosyllables as, miserable and apathetic, they sat thinking of the food they had sent back to Mr. Cone's kitchen with caustic comments, of the various dishes for which the chef of The Colonial was celebrated. Mr. Stott thought that his watch must be slow until it was found that every other watch agreed with his exactly. He declared that when the cook did appear he meant to urge him to hurry breakfast. The cook came out, finally, at seven-thirty, and, after a surprised glance at the row on the platforms, strode into the kitchen where he rattled the range as if it were his purpose to wreck it. When the smoke rose from the chimney Mr. Stott went to the door to carry out his intention of asking the cook to speed up breakfast. A large sign greeted him: DUDES KEEP OUT The cook was a gaunt, long-legged person with a saturnine countenance. He wore a seersucker coat with a nickel badge pinned on the lapel of it. As an opening wedge Mr. Stott smiled engagingly and pointed to it: "For exceptional gallantry, I presume--a war medal?" The hero stopped long enough to offer it for Mr. Stott's closer inspection. It read: UNITED ORDER OF PASTRY COOKS OF THE WORLD Taken somewhat aback, Mr. Stott said feebly: "Very nice, indeed--er----" "Mr. Hicks, at your service!" the cook supplemented, bowing formally. "Hicks," Mr. Stott added. "Just take a second longer and say 'Mister.'" The cook eyed him in such a fashion as he administered the reprimand for his familiarity that Mr. Stott backed off without mentioning his starving condition. "What did he say?" they asked, eagerly, as he sat down on his platform, somewhat crestfallen. "He seems a temperamental person," Mr. Stott replied, evasively. "But we shall have breakfast in due season." It was suspected that Mr. Stott had failed in his mission, and they were sure of it as the hands dragged around to eight-thirty. At that hour precisely Mr. Hicks came out and hammered on a triangle as vigorously as if it were necessary. In spite of their efforts to appear unconcerned when it jangled, the haste of the guests was nothing less than indecent as they hurried to the dining room and scrambled for seats at the table. The promise of food raised their spirits a trifle and Mr. Appel was able to say humorously as, with his table knife, he scalped his agate-ware plate loose from the oil-cloth: "I suppose we shall soon learn the customs of the country. In a month we should all be fairly well ac'climated." "Acclim'ated," Mr. Stott corrected. "Ac'climated," Mr. Appel maintained, obstinately. "At least with your kind permission I shall continue to so pronounce it." "I beg your pardon," Mr. Stott apologized with elaborate sarcasm, "but when I am wrong I like to be told of it." Which was not the strict truth for the reason that no one ever was able to convince him that he ever was mistaken. As a result of the discussion everyone was afraid to use the word for fear of offending one or the other. The silence that followed while breakfast was being placed upon the table was broken by Miss Eyester, who said timidly: "In the night I thought I heard something sniffing, and it frightened me." Not to be outdone in sensational experiences, Mrs. Stott averred positively: "There was some _wild animal_ running over our tent. I could hear its sharp claws sticking into the canvas. A coyote, I fancy." "A ground-squirrel, more likely," remarked Mr. Appel. Mr. Stott smiled at him: "Squee-rrel, if you will allow me to again correct you." "I guess I can't help myself," replied Mr. Appel, drily. Mr. Stott shrugged a shoulder and his tolerant look said plainly that, after all, one should not expect too much of a man who had begun life as a "breaker-boy." "The squee-rrel or coyote or whatever it was," Mrs. Stott continued, "went pitter-patter, pitter-patter--so!" She illustrated with her finger-tips on the oil-cloth. "Prob'ly a chipmunk," said Pinkey, prosaically. "Are they dangerous, Mr. Fripp?" inquired Miss Gaskett. "Not unless cornered or wounded," he replied, gravely. This was a joke, obviously, so everybody laughed, which stimulated Pinkey to further effort. When Mr. Hicks poured his cup so full that the coffee ran over he remarked facetiously: "It won't stack, cookie." Coffee-pot in hand, Mr. Hicks drew himself up majestically and his eyes withered Pinkey. "I beg to be excused from such familiarity, and if you wish our pleasant relations to continue you will not repeat it." "I bet I won't josh _him_ again," Pinkey said, ruefully, when Mr. Hicks returned to the kitchen in the manner of offended royalty. "Cooks are sometimes very peculiar," observed Mr. Stott, buttering his pancakes lavishly. "I remember that my mother--my mother, by the way, Mr. Penrose, was a Sproat----" "Shoat?" Old Mr. Penrose, who complained of a pounding in his ears, was not hearing so well in the high altitude. Mr. Appel and Pinkey tittered, which nettled Mr. Stott and he shouted: "Sproat! An old Philadelphia family." "Oh, yes," Mr. Penrose recollected. "I recall Amanda Sproat--she married a stevedore. Your sister?" Mr. Stott chose to ignore the inquiry, and said coldly: "My father was in public life." He might have added that his father was a policeman, and therefore his statement was no exaggeration. Everybody felt that it served Mr. Penrose right for telling about the stevedore when he was seized with a violent fit of coughing immediately afterward. Wiping his streaming eyes, he looked from Wallie to Pinkey and declared resentfully: "This is the result of your reckless driving. The cork came out of my cough syrup in the suitcase. The only way I can get relief from the irritation is to apply my tongue to the puddle. I shall have to lick my valise until I can have the prescription refilled in Prouty." The culprits mumbled that they "were sorry," to which Mr. Penrose replied disagreeably that that did not keep him from "coughing his head off!" Looking sympathetically at Pinkey, Miss Eyester, for the purpose of diverting the irascible old gentleman's attention from the subject, asked when she might take her first riding lesson. Pinkey said promptly: "This mornin'--they's nothin' to hinder." "That's awfully good of you, Mr. Fripp," she said, gratefully. Pinkey, who always jumped when any one called him "Mister," replied bluntly: "Tain't--I wantta." "We'll all go!" Mrs. Stott cried, excitedly. "Shore." There was less enthusiasm in the answer. "We were so fortunate as to be able to purchase our equipment for riding broncos before coming out here," explained Mr. Budlong. "There is an excellent store on the Boardwalk and we found another in Omaha." "We have divided skirts and everything! Just wait till you see us!" cried Mrs. Budlong. "And you'll take our pictures, won't you, Mr. Penrose?" "I don't mind wasting a couple of films," he consented. Between the pancakes and the prospective riding lesson the atmosphere cleared and everyone's spirits rose so that the slightly strained relations were again normal by the time they got up from the table. They were as eager as children as they opened their trunks for their costumes, and even Aunt Lizzie Philbrick, who had once ridden a burro in Old Mexico, declared her intention of trying it. While the "dudes" dressed, Pinkey and Wallie went down to the corral to saddle for them. "We better let her ride the pinto," said Pinkey, casually. "'Her?'" Wallie looked at his partner fixedly. "Which 'her'?" "That lady that's so thin she could hide behind a match and have room left to peek around the corner. She seems sickly, and the pinto is easy-gaited," Pinkey explained, elaborately. "All right," Wallie nodded, "and we'll put Aunt Lizzie on the white one and give Mrs. Budlong----" "Kindly assign me a spirited mount," interrupted Mr. Stott, who, as to costume, was a compromise between an English groom and a fox-hunter. Wallie looked dubious. "Oh, I understand horses," declared Mr. Stott, "I used to ride like an Indian." "The buckskin?" Wallie asked doubtfully of Pinkey. Pinkey hesitated. "You need not be afraid that he will injure me. I can handle him." Wallie, who never had heard of Mr. Stott's horsemanship, consented reluctantly. "I prefer to saddle and bridle myself, also," said Mr. Stott, when the buckskin was pointed out to him. Wallie's misgivings returned to him and Pinkey rolled his eyes eloquently when they saw "the man who understood horses" trying to bridle with the chin-strap and noted that he had saddled without a blanket. Mr. Stott laughed inconsequently when the mistake was pointed out to him and declared that it was an oversight merely. "Now, if you will get me something to stand on I am ready to mount." Once more Pinkey and Wallie exchanged significant glances as the man "who used to ride like an Indian" climbed into the saddle like someone getting into an upper berth in a Pullman. Mr. Stott was sitting with the fine, easy grace of a clothespin when the rest of the party came down the path ready for their riding lesson. Neither Pinkey nor Wallie was easily startled, but when they saw their guests the most their astonishment permitted was an inarticulate gurgle. Dismay also was among their emotions as they thought of conducting the party through Prouty and the Yellowstone. Wallie had his share of moral courage, but when they first met his vision he doubted if he was strong enough for the ordeal. Mrs. Budlong, whose phlegmatic exterior concealed a highly romantic nature and an active imagination, was dressed to resemble a cow-girl of the movies as nearly as her height and width permitted. Her Stetson, knotted kerchief, fringed gauntlets, quirt, spurs to delight a Mexican, and swagger--which had the effect of a barge rocking at anchor--so fascinated Pinkey that he could not keep his eyes from her. Old Mr. Penrose in a buckskin shirt ornate with dyed porcupine quills, and a forty-five Colt slung in a holster, looked like the next to the last of the Great Scouts, while Mr. Budlong, in a beaded vest that would have turned bullets, was happy though uncomfortable. Mr. Budlong was dressed like a stage bandit, except that he wore moccasins in spite of Pinkey's warning that he would find it misery to ride in them unless he was accustomed to wearing them. Simultaneous with Miss Gaskett's appearance in plaid bloomers a saddle-horse lay back and broke his bridle-reins, for which Pinkey had not the heart to punish him in the circumstances. Aunt Lizzie wore long, voluminous, divided skirts and a little white hat like a paté-tin, while by contrast Mrs. Harry Stott looked very smart and ultra in a tailored coat and riding breeches. This was the party that started up Skull Creek under Pinkey's guidance, and the amazing aggregation that greeted the choleric eye of Mr. Canby on one of the solitary rides which were his greatest diversion. He had just returned from the East and had not yet learned of the use to which Wallie had put his check. But now he recalled Wallie's parting speech to Pinkey when he had started to get the paper cashed, and this fantastic company was the result! As Canby drew in his horse, he stared in stony-eyed unfriendliness while they waved at him gaily and Mr. Stott called out that they were going to be neighbourly and visit him soon. The feeling of helpless wrath in which he now looked after the party was a sensation that he had experienced only a few times in his life. Pinkey had warned him that at the first openly hostile act he would "blab" the story of the Skull Creek episode far and wide. He had hit Canby in his most vulnerable spot, for ridicule was something which he found it impossible to endure, and he could well appreciate the glee with which his many enemies would listen to the tale, taking good care that it never died. By all the rules of the game as he had played it often, and always with success, Wallie should long since have "faded"--scared, starved out. Yet, somehow, in some unique and extraordinary way that only a "dude" would think of, he had managed to come out on top. But the real basis for Canby's grievance, and one which he would not admit even to himself, was that however Wallie was criticized, Helene Spenceley never failed to find something to say in his defence. There was not much that Canby could do in the present circumstances to put difficulties in Wallie's way, but the next day he found it convenient to turn a trainload of long-horn Texas cattle loose on the adjacent range, and posted warnings to the effect that they were dangerous to pedestrians, and persons going among them on foot did so at their own risk. CHAPTER XX WALLIE QUALIFIES AS A FIRST-CLASS HERO Pinkey took a triangular piece of glass from between the logs in the bunk-house and regarded himself steadfastly in the bit of broken mirror. He murmured finally: "I ain't no prize baby, but if I jest had a classy set of teeth I wouldn't be bad lookin'." He replaced the mirror in the crack and sauntered down to the cook-shack where he seated himself on the door-sill. The chef was singing as if he meant it: "Ah, I Have Sighed to Rest Me Deep in the Silent Grave." Pinkey interrupted: "How do you git to work to get teeth, Mr. Hicks, if they ain't no dentist handy?" Like Mr. Stott, no question could be put to Mr. Hicks for which he could not find an answer. He now replied promptly: "Well, there's two ways: you can send to Mungummery-Ward and have a crate sent out on approval, and keep tryin' till you find a set that fits, or you can take the cast off your gooms yourself, send it on and have 'em hammer you out some to order." "Is that so? What kind of stuff do they use to make the cast of your gooms of?" "Some uses putty, some uses clay, but I believe they generally recommend plaster of Paris. It's hard, and it's cheap, and it stays where it's put." A thoughtful silence followed; then Pinkey got up and joined Wallie, who was sitting on the top pole of the corral, smoking moodily. The "dudes" were at target practice with 22's and six-shooters, having been persuaded finally not to use Mr. Canby's range as a background. They now all walked with a swagger and seldom went to their meals without their weapons. Pinkey blurted out suddenly: "I wisht I'd died when I was little!" "What's the matter?" "Oh, nothin'." It was plain that he wished to be interrogated further, but Wallie, who was thinking of Helene Spenceley and her indifference to him, was in no mood to listen to other people's troubles. After another period of reflection Pinkey asked abruptly: "Do you believe in signs?" To which Wallie replied absently: "Can't say I do. Why?" "If there's anything in signs I ought to be turrible jealous--the way my eyebrows grow together." "Aren't you?" indifferently. "Me--jealous? Nobody could make me jealous, especially a worman." "You're lucky!" Wallie spoke with unnecessary emphasis. "It's an uncomfortable sensation." Pinkey shifted uneasily and picked a bit of bark off the corral pole. "Don't it look kinda funny that Miss Eyester would take any in'trist in Old Man Penrose? A girl like her wouldn't care nothin' about his money, would she?" Wallie looked dour as he answered: "You never can tell--maybe." He had been asking himself the same question about Miss Spenceley, whom he had seen rather frequently of late with Canby. "Guess I'll quirl me a brownie and git into the feathers," glumly. "I thought I'd go into town in the mornin', I want to do me some buyin'." Wallie nodded, and Pinkey added as he unhooked his heels: "You want to ride herd pretty clost on Aunt Lizzie. She's bound and determined to go outside the fence huntin' moss-agates. The cattle are liable to hook her. Canby throwed them long-horns in there on purpose." "I'm sure of it," Wallie said, grimly. "Yes, I'll watch Aunt Lizzie. But she isn't worse than Appel, who was over there catching grasshoppers because he said they were fatter." "Dudes is aggravatin'," Pinkey admitted. "But," philosophically, "they're our meal-tickets, so we got to swaller 'em." As Wallie watched his partner go up the path to the bunk-house he wondered vaguely what purchase he had to make that was so important as to induce him to make a special trip to Prouty. But since Pinkey had not chosen to tell him and Wallie had a talent for minding his own business, he dismissed it; besides, he had more vital things to think about at that moment. It had hurt him that Helene Spenceley had not been over. Obviously he had taken too much for granted, for he had thought that when she saw he was in earnest once more and in a fair way to make a success of his second venture, things would be different between them. He had imagined she would express her approval in some way, but she seemed to take it all as a matter of course. She was the most difficult woman to impress that he ever had known, but, curiously, the less she was impressed the more eager he was to impress her. Yet her casualness only spurred him to further effort and strengthened his determination to make her realize that there was a great deal in him worth while and that some day he would stand for something in the community. But somehow he did not seem to make much progress, and now he asked himself grumpily why in the dickens he couldn't have fallen in love with Mattie Gaskett, who followed him like his shadow and had her own income, with wonderful prospects. He scuffed at the bark on the corral pole with his foot and thought sourly of the rot he had read about love begetting love. He had not noticed it. It more often begot laughter, and his case was an instance of it. Helene Spenceley laughed at him--he was sure of it--and fool that he was--imbecile--it did not seem to make any difference. There was just one girl for him and always would be--he was like that and it was a misfortune. In time, very likely, he would be a hermit, or a "sour-ball" like Canby; he would sit at dances looking like a bull-elk that's been whipped out of the herd, and the girls would giggle at him. Wallie's mood was undoubtedly pessimistic, and, finally, he trudged up the path to bed, hoping he would awaken in a more cheerful humour--which he did--because he dreamed that with Helene Spenceley beside him he was burning up the road in a machine of a splendour "to put Canby's eye out." The next morning Pinkey was gone when they gathered at the breakfast table. Miss Eyester looked downcast because he had failed to tell her of his intention, while Mrs. Stott declared that it was very inconsiderate for him to go without mentioning it, since he had promised to match embroidery cotton for her and she could not go on with her dresser-scarf until she had some apple-green to put the leaves in with. The morning passed without incident, except that Mr. Budlong was astonished when Wallie told him that his new high-power rifle was scattering bullets among Mr. Canby's herd of cattle more than a mile distant and that it was great good fortune he had not killed any of them. Otherwise Wallie was engaged as usual in answering questions and lengthening and shortening stirrups for ladies the length of whose legs seemed to change from day to day, making such alterations necessary. Miss Gaskett "heeled" Wallie with flattering faithfulness and incidentally imparted the information that a friend from Zanesville, Ohio, Miss Mercy Lane was to join their party in Prouty when the date was definitely set for their tour of the Yellowstone. "She's a dear, sweet girl whom I knew at boarding-school, and," archly, "you must tell me that you will not fall in love with her." Wallie, who now thought of even "dear, sweet girls" in terms of dollars and cents, felt that he could safely promise. It was a relief when the triangle jangled for dinner, and Wallie looked forward to the ride afterward, although it had its attendant irritations--chief of which was the propensity of J. Harry Stott to gallop ahead and then gallop back to see if the party was coming: rare sport for Mr. Stott, but less so for the buckskin. As soon as that sterling young fellow had discovered that he could ride at a gallop without falling off he lost no opportunity to do so, and his horse was already showing the result of it. Boosting Aunt Lizzie Philbrick on and off her horse to enable her to pick flowers and examine rocks was a part of the routine, as was recovering Mrs. Budlong's hairpins when her hair came down and she lost her hat. Mr. Budlong, too, never failed to lag behind and become separated from the rest of the party, so that he had to be hunted. He persisted in riding in moccasins and said that his insteps "ached him" so that he could not keep up. Reasoning that every occupation has drawbacks of some kind, Wallie bore these small annoyances with patience, though there were times when he confessed that The Happy Family of The Colonial were not altogether so charming and amiable as he had thought. He never would have suspected, for instance, that J. Harry Stott, who in his own environment was a person of some little consequence, in another could appear a complete and unmitigated ass. Or that Mrs. Budlong had such a wolfish appetite, or that ten cents looked larger to Mr. Appel than a dollar did to Pink, or that Old Penrose was vain as a peacock about his looks. Still, Wallie consoled himself, everyone had his idiosyncrasies, and if they had not had these they might have had worse ones. To-day there was the usual commotion over getting off, and then when Wallie was ready to boost Aunt Lizzie on her horse she was nowhere to be found. She was not in her tent, nor had she fallen over the embankment, and the fact that she set great store by her afternoon rides deepened the mystery. Old Mr. Penrose, who had unslung his field-glasses, declared he saw something that might be the top of Aunt Lizzie's head moving above a small "draw" over on Canby's lease. Mr. Penrose, who had sought ranch life chiefly because he said he was sick of cities and mobs of people, when not riding now spent most of his time with his high-power glasses watching the road in the hope of seeing someone passing and he had come to be as excited when he saw a load of hay as if he had discovered a planet. He passed the glasses to Wallie, who adjusted them and immediately nodded: "That's somebody in the draw; it must be Aunt Lizzie." There was no doubt about it when she came out and started walking slowly along the top, searching, as she went, for moss-agates. Wallie gave a sharp exclamation, for, in the moment that they watched her, a small herd of the Texas cattle came around a hill and also saw her. They stopped short, and looked at the strange figure. Then, like a band of curious antelope, they edged a little closer. It might be that they would not attack her, but, if they did, it was certain they would gore her to death unless someone was there to prevent it. Leading his own horse and dragging Aunt Lizzie's stubborn white pony behind him, Wallie threw down the wire gate opening into the Canby lease and sprang into the saddle. He kept his eyes fixed on the cattle as he rode toward Aunt Lizzie, making the best time he could, with her cayuse pulling back obstinately on the bridle, but, in any case, he could not have seen Helene Spenceley and Canby riding from the opposite direction, for they were still on the other side of a small ridge which hid them. Helene had stopped at the Canby ranch for luncheon on her way to pay her long-deferred visit to her whilom acquaintances of The Colonial, and though Canby had not relished the thought that she was going there, he had asked to accompany her across the leases. Pleased that she had stopped without an invitation, he was more likable than ever she had seen him, and he made no pretense of concealing the fact that she could be mistress of the most pretentious house in the country if she chose to. Helene could not well have been otherwise than impressed by its magnificence. She was aware that with Canby's money and her personal popularity she could make an enviable position for herself very easily, and she was nothing if not ambitious. The traits in Canby which so frequently antagonized her, his arrogance, his selfish egotism and disregard of others' rights and feelings, to-day were not in evidence. He was spontaneous, genial, boyish almost, and she never had felt so kindly disposed toward him nor so tolerant of his failings. She looked at him speculatively now as he rode beside her and wondered if association would beget an affection that would do as well as love if supplemented by the many things he had to offer? Her friendlier mood was not lost on Canby who was quick to take advantage of it. He leaned over and laid his hand on hers as it rested on the saddle horn. "Your thoughts of me are kinder than usual, aren't they, Helene? You are less critical?" He spoke almost humbly. She smiled at him as she admitted: "Perhaps so." "I wish you could think so of me always, because I should be very happy if--you----" His narrow, selfish face had a softness she never had seen in it as he paused while he groped for the exact words he wished in which to express himself. There was no need for him to finish, for his meaning was unmistakable, and the colour rose in Helene's cheeks as she averted her eyes from his steady gaze and looked on past him. Their horses had been climbing slowly and had now reached the top of the ridge which gave an uninterrupted view across the flat stretch which lay between them and the ranch that was such an eyesore to Canby. As she took in the sweep of country her gaze concentrated upon the moving objects she saw in it. Puzzled at first, her look of perplexity was succeeded by one of consternation, then horror. With swift comprehension she grasped fully the meaning of a scene that was being enacted before her. Her expression attracted Canby's attention even before she pointed and cried sharply: "Look!" Aunt Lizzie was still busy with her pebbles, a tiny, tragic figure she looked, in view of what was happening, as she walked along in leisurely fashion, stopping every step or two to pick up and examine a stone that attracted her attention. The herd of long-horns had come closer, but one had drawn out from the others and was shaking its he